


Slam Poetry

by Overdressedtokill (SkyeStan)



Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 11:51:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1427467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SkyeStan/pseuds/Overdressedtokill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kate Bishop thinks about life, herself, and why Clint Barton is so obnoxiously good at sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Slam Poetry

It happens in midtown, when it’s raining.  Kate would make some snide remark about how her life is nothing more than some fucked up Gossip Girl parody, but Clint’s sucking on her neck in a bathroom stall in the middle of the day, and she thinks that might be a little too on-the-nose.  She never wanted to be an Upper East Side princess, can she just say that, for the record?  She wanted to be a responsible young woman who made good fucking decisions.  Then she’d joined the Young Avengers.  Could she blame Eli for this?  Maybe.  She made a mental note.  Clint’s pawing at her blouse.  And pawing is the right word for it, really.

 

Clint had said, “hey, do you want to go to Manhattan?” and she should’ve known right then and there that Clint Barton wanting to leave Brooklyn was a red fucking flag.  But it was nice out, like really really nice out, and again, Clint never wanted to leave Brooklyn, so it was only fair for her to take advantage of the one time he did.  In the summer, if Clint wasn’t falling out of windows and pretending to be an Avenger, he was slumped over on his couch in the AC next to his dog.  Who, by the way, had decided he was going to do the sane, rational thing and stay in the apartment.  Which left Clint and Kate to go to Manhattan on their own. So many red flags.  So fucking many.

 

He’s talking dirty.  Not loud enough for the whole damn building to hear, but loud enough that Kate wonders how Bobbi even stayed married to him for as long as she did.  Then he starts fingering her, and Kate maybe sees the reason with astounding clarity.  She should’ve known he’d have magic fingers.  He’s an archer.  He pulls a bow all day.  And now two of his fingers are inside her, and he’s so good at it that she doesn’t even mind that he says,

“Do you like that, Katie Kate?”  She actually manages a low whine in response.  Yes, she does like it.  The dirty talk actually gets kind of hot, when he’s actually making her wet and not just pulling her hair and sucking her neck.  Which was hot in it’s own way, but no where near as hot as Clint Barton fingering his stupid perfect fingers inside of her.

 

His jeans are faded and thin, and if he grinds against Kate’s hip one more time she’s going to lose it.  She’s not sixteen, for fucks sake.  You’ve got an erection, Clint Barton.  Based on your history, this is not the first time.  She’s amazed that she can still find enough strength to resent Clint, even in this trying time.  This time of him getting her closer and closer to orgasm, rolling her clit under his thumb, whispering,

“You’re so pretty, Katie.  You’re perfect.  Do you want to come?”  She nods.  He kisses her.  Hard.  Not the gentle kisses he gave her when she dragged him in here.  Had they been fighting?  Probably.  They only ever went into bathrooms to fight.  And to fuck, but that’s a new thing.

 

“Can you take my pants off?” Clint asks, and if Kate’s too close to think about what a stupid question that is.  Well, she thinks about it, but she doesn’t say anything.  She also doesn’t take his pants off.

“Me first,” she says, and realizes that’s incoherent and silly, “I want to come,” she breathes.  Clint clicks his tongue.

“Needy needy,” he says.  “You’re such a brat.”

“I’ll kick your-” a twist of Clint’s fingers, “holy fuck.  Please?”  He leans his head into her shoulder and she knows he’s grinning.  She might be needy but he’s smug, and that’s worse.

“Go on,” he says, pressing his thumb harder, arching his fingers, she whimpers and whines and comes around his hand.

 

He turns her around.  So she’s facing the stall wall, where someone has written something akin to slam poetry.  In a midtown bathroom. How poetic.  Clint runs his hand along her, resting it on her ass.  For a second she thinks he might ask her to lick his fingers, and they’re definitely not there yet.   Her dress is cotton, and she’s thankful for that.  It’s been hiked up around her waist for some time now, but the wrinkles won’t show.

“Can I fuck you?” Clint asks, and she laughs.  Not to be mean, but because come on, Clint, really?

“You gonna wrap it up?” Kate asks, “Bobbi told me you keep condoms in your wallet.”

“Did she?” Clint asks, and he’s laughing too, which is a relief.  His ego gets weird sometimes.  Also, he’s pressing his dick against her.

“Clint-” Kate warns.  He gives her ass a squeeze.  Which is probably supposed to be reassuring.

“She’s right,” Clint says.  “Bobbi, I mean.”

“Oh,” Kate says.  Clint’s erection is just kind of resting there, waiting for permission.

“So...” he offers.

“Yes, idiot,” Kate says, “you can put it in me.”  Clint kisses the back of her neck.  It would be a romantic gesture if they weren’t in a bathroom stall.

 

He fucks her.  She lets him, because he’s an adult and she’s an adult and she’s be lying if she said she’d never thought about, never stared at the ceiling and touched herself and thought of Clint fucking Barton.  Handsome but so, so stupid.  But if his fingers were magic, then his dick is something else entirely.  She gets it, all of a sudden.  Clint Barton was made for sex, and she’s just been using him wrong the whole time.

“Oh god,” she mutters, and he pushes her forward, “you can go harder.”

“What?” he says, and she realizes she must’ve lost him for a second, there.  His world goes blurry.  A lot.  Hers doesn’t.

“Harder,” Kate says.  He gives her a thrust that makes her gasp and he wraps his arms around her, tight, his breath on her ear.

 

He doesn’t make himself last, not at all.  Kate doesn’t mind.  She’d kind of like to get out of the bathroom, actually.  If they do it again, she hopes it’s on a bed.  It’ll be on his, probably.  And they will do this again.  Because it’s a mistake, and mistakes are a Hakweye’s only constant.

“Don’t say you love me,” Kate says, pushing against him, “you’ll ruin it.”

“I’d never say that,” Clint says, “not even if I meant it.”  He’s perfect for her, and that’s exactly the problem.

“Can I come?” he asks her.

“Wait for me,” she says, and he does.  He’s stupid and selfish but loving in his own fucked up way, and when she quivers for a second time around him he grabs her by the hips and comes.

“You’re perfect,” he tells her.

“You’re still inside me,” she says.  He leans father forward, kisses her cheek.  Still inside her.  Does he need an exit strategy?  An evacuation plan?  Why are they even in midtown, anyway?  Midtown sucks.  This did not suck, but it will suck, and Kate’s dreading it.

 

“What now?” she asks.  Maybe she’s asking the poetry on the wall.  “Believe in yourself,” it replies.

“What do you mean?” Clint asks.  He pulls out.  He’s cleaning himself off with toilet paper.  Flushing the condom down the toilet.  Kate reaches down, grabs her underwear.  Puts them back where they belong.  Fixes her skirt.

“I don’t know,” she says.  She’s facing him, now.  He’s remember how to zip up his pants.  He checks, makes sure he didn’t get anything caught in his fly.  He buttons his jeans.  He kisses her forehead.

“Relax, Katie-Kate,” he says, “I’m here.”  And that might be the problem.


End file.
